


Mr. Junebug

by placentalmammal



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:27:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4337432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance encounter between Arcade Gannon and Mrs. Carla Boone. Contains a non-graphic description of a pelvic exam and a bit of fudging regarding the chances of conceiving after 30.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Junebug

"Mrs. Boone?"

Carla had waited five weeks for her appointment and this is what it came down to. The doctor, male, was tall, blonde, with a harried look on his face.

"That's me," she said, smiling, hefting her beat-up purse over her shoulder. It was Pre-War, some unknowable white synthetic material that was cracked at the corners and showed every stain, but it was the purse she'd been carrying when she met Craig. She'd come to regard it as a good-luck charm, and she needed all the luck she could get.

The doctor, Gannon, shook his hand and introduced himself. He lead her through the Follower's complex to a door mostly concealed behind a canvas tent. "We perform certain exams inside the Fort itself," he explained, "for the safety and comfort of our patients." He spoke with the flat cadence of someone reciting from memory. This suited Carla just fine. If she wanted to chat, she would've gone to a hairdresser.

The exam room was a re-purposed hallway divided into cells by wheeled partitions. Dr. Gannon indicated the second of three such 'rooms' and instructed her to disrobe and lay on the table, then he drew a curtain over the 'doorway' and asked her to call him in when she was ready.

He tossed her a clean robe over the partition. It was terry-cloth, stiff from repeated washings. Whatever color it had been, it had faded to an ambiguous grey, and it carried a faint tang of bleach. Carla closed her eyes, took a breath to steady herself, and stripped, stuffing her dress and panties into the white purse and set it on the floor beside the exam table.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself before she called for Dr. Gannon. You're being ridiculous, she scolded herself. He'll still love you, no matter what the doctor says.

"Ready," she called.

The examination with a list of questions, and she chewed her nails while she answered. It was a bad habit, one she'd picked up when she quit smoking. She'd done her best to give it up as well, but she backslid when she was nervous, and Dr. Gannon was making her nervous. She was just thinking she ought to have waited the extra three weeks to see pretty, personable Doctor Julie when he asked the million-cap question.

"Are you pregnant or trying to become pregnant?"

"Yes," she said, trying to project confidence she didn't feel. "Trying." She raised a hand halfway to her mouth, but she abruptly changed track and twisted her wedding ring, instead.

Gannon raised an eyebrow and flipped through the pages on his clipboard, referencing the form she'd filled out when she made the appointment.

"You're 34," he said flatly.

She bristled. "My husband and I are looking to start a family."

"The Followers don't recommend pregnancy for women over thirty. The chances of conceiving and the risks associated with childbirth are much higher for older woman."

"Older women?"

He blanched. "Er, for women over 30. It's to do with hormone levels and nutrition and radiation," he explained.

"Don't condescend to me," she snapped. "Don't you think I know all that? That's why I'm here. Just tell me whether or not you think I could."

He apologized and abashedly asked her to put her legs in the stirrups, please. She obliged with as much dignity as she could muster and tried not to flinch when he inserted the speculum. He adjusted the light and hmmm'd, Carla held her breath.

"Your cervix looks fine," he said, finally. "I'm not seeing any abnormalities or any sign of an infection." He inserted two fingers into her vagina and pressed down on her abdomen with his other hand. "I'm checking your uterus," he explained, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Again, no tumors or cysts. Nothing out of the usual, as far as I can tell."

"So what does that mean?" she asked, wincing as he withdrew the speculum. She pulled her legs out of the stirrups and sat up, trying to tamp down her anxiety and her excitement.

He sighed. "You're in good health. That's all I can conclude from a brief pelvic exam. I'm not a gynecologist or a midwife--"

She snorted, and after a moment, he laughed, too.

"--As you can probably tell. I couldn't tell you about your chances of conceiving or what complications you might face during pregnancy or childbirth. If you want to have that conversation, you'll have to make an appointment with Julie or one of the other doctors. All I can tell you is that, other than your age, there's no immediate cause for concern. As near as I can tell, your odds aren't any better or worse than I'd expect them to be."

A nearly overwhelming sensation of relief washed over her and she laughed, despite the rude doctor, despite her discomfort, despite herself. "Oh thank god," she breathed.

"But," he said. Carla steeled herself for bad news, reminded herself that this had been a crazy dream from the get-go, a what-if scenario. "I can't, in good conscious, let you go without a frank discussion of the risks associated with pregnancy and childbirth, especially at your age."

"My advanced age," she said, dryly.

He smiled again and spoke more gently. "Could doesn't mean should," he cautioned. "Your risk of miscarriage and certain birth defects is higher now than it was five years ago. You're more likely to have an etopic pregnancy or suffer potentially fatal complications during birth. If we had better technology, more equipment to run tests and monitor the fetus--" 

(Carla winced at his word choice, she and Craig had been using the word baby almost exclusively since they decided what the hell, they might as well.)

"--I'd say 'go for it.' But we don't have the technology we need. We're not well-equipped for a c-section. And that's assuming you're able to conceive. I'd strongly urge you to consider adoption as an alternative."

She chewed her nails, deep in thought. When she spoke, she spoke carefully. "But there's a chance," she said. "A chance that I'd be able to get pregnant and that I'd have a healthy baby and be just fine afterwords."

He nodded. "There's always a chance."

"I think I have to take it," she said, her resolve firming up as she spoke. "It's risky, but it's what I want. It's what my husband wants. And he's going to be a good dad," she said, her voice softening. "We both want this so much. Hell, we'll adopt later, we both want more than one. But being pregnant, having one of our own? It means a lot to us."

She realized she was crying and she blew her nose on the sleeve of her loaned robe. Dr. Gannon valiantly pretended not to notice.

"When you leave," he said, "Leave your robe in the basket." He stood and moved to leave, but when he reached the curtained doorway, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Good luck," he said, and he sounded like he meant it.

"Thank you," she said, and she did mean it. He left, and she sat there for a moment, waiting for her hands to stop shaking. The doctor hadn't said no. There was a world of possibilities opening up at her feet, and she just needed a minute to collect herself before she faced it.

She dressed and left her robe in the basket, like he'd asked. On her way out, she stopped Doctor Julie and filed a complaint about Dr. Gannon. "He's kind of funny," she said. "But he's kind of an ass."

\--

Four months later, and Arcade Gannon had just about adjusted to his new role in research. There'd been a disciplinary meeting and Julie had told him his bedside manner was appalling and the latest complaint had been the final straw. His new position was dull and unfulfilling, but he had to concede that it was a better fit, all things considered.

He'd nearly forgotten about Mrs. Boone until the day he ran into her at Mick and Ralph's. She was round and radiant and smiling, pregnant and blissful. She clutched his hand and thanked him in earnest, reminding him fondly of Daisy.

"I'm at 20 weeks," she said proudly. "I must have been pregnant on the day I came in to ask about my chances. That's why I was so weepy."

Arcade hadn't thought her particularly weepy, but he sensed that Carla Boone was proud, not the sort of woman given to overt displays of emotion.

"I've never seen Craig so happy," she said. "We can't wait. He found this place out in Novac--I've never heard of it, either, but he promised that we'll able to have our own house and a little yard." She patted her belly absently.

"I've got family in Novac," he said. "Daisy Whitman. She'll help set you up. Tell her Arcade says 'hello,' and no, he's not coming home for Thanksgiving."

Carla didn't even pretend to laugh. "You're not as funny as you think you are, Dr. Gannon," she said, in a fond, bless-your-heart sort of a way.

"You and Daisy are going to get along like a house on fire," he muttered.

In what he assumed was an uncharacteristic display of sentimentality, she leaned in for a hug. "Thank you," she whispered.

He patted her back uncertainly. This was new and strange for him, too. "You're welcome." 

Just as suddenly, she released him and stepped away, color high in her cheeks. "Good-bye, Dr. Gannon. It was nice to see you."

"I can say the same, Mrs. Boone. Take care of yourself."

She promised that she would, and with a final squeeze of his hand, she was gone.


End file.
